


Only when the raven landed, they knew, the hero had gone

by Reyavie



Series: the goddess' hound [1]
Category: Arthurian Mythology, Celtic Mythology
Genre: Ambigous Relationship, Depictions of not-so-healthy relationships, Fae being Fae and attempting to meddle with humans, Gods, Gods being Gods and punishing everyone, Half-Gods, Magic, Reincarnation, Sibling Relationship, Violence, fae, sorcery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-10 09:01:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11688387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reyavie/pseuds/Reyavie
Summary: “Time to go, girl,” Morgan spoke lowly. “You will have no victims tonight.”Remain silent.Arthur heard his sister’s warning underneath her words. In this enchanted world, she was Queen, not he. Morgan, Le Fay, Morgan, the Fae,wrong name,the world around him pressed, wrong name, dog.“You should stop demanding, Crow,” the woman continued, all enchantment lost from her beautiful voice. “One day, we will not listen.”Soldiers disappear in Camelot, women, children, all without a trace or warning. It takes a threat to the King for his sister to meddle.





	Only when the raven landed, they knew, the hero had gone

**xxxXXXxxx**

 

Men had been disappearing for countless days. The missives arrived one after the other, always repeating the same words. Patrols had missed in their entirety, the men from the northern village had not been seen again, two women had been lost on the road. It could have been a coincidence up until they were too many to number. And how could he send men to the place where he feared to go?

The fog deepened to a point where he could barely see beyond himself or the dark vulture of his sister by his side. His knights had faded into the white nothingness an hour before and the road had been replaced by muddy tracks and half-frozen stone. Traces of music could be heard in the air, lights which were not stars resting upon darkened tree branches, whispering shadows onto their surroundings. It could almost be magical, if not for the persuasive feeling of danger dancing upon his spine.

“You always wander to the last place you are supposed to.”

The unexpected voice was not Morgan’s. Female, yes, wafting through the wind and resounding in his ears like poetry.

It was lovely.

Arthur turned towards the voice attempting to… something. Move towards it, definitely. Who did it belong to, he wondered, taking a step forward; why was it so beautiful, he pondered, not even noticing as he moved away from his sister.

“Don’t move.”

Suddenly, Morgan was in front of him. No, what was she doing? She would scare the voice! She usually did. There was something in the way she stared at men and women alike; like she could run them over with a glance.

Her hand, white, pale white and not nearly as delicate as it should be, was bleeding. He didn’t notice. He couldn’t notice. The voice was singing then, whispering into his ears like the softest lullaby he had ever heard and Morgan, she was stopping him from discovering what was by the end of that calling. Arthur’s complaint was silenced by bloodied fingers against his lips, against his forehead, a little to his cheeks before they traced his elbow, trailed down his arm, flitted against his but for a whisper. The uncomfortable traces of blood against skin lingered far after the blood dried.

“Remain silent.” It was not a request but an order. The first order he remembered his sister giving him ever since they were children and the title King was something out of stories. Those two words warred against the song. His limbs stilled, even as the melody beckoned him to move. “Even if the world upends before, do not speak a word.”

The sound of leaves crushed tiptoed closer. He could not seem whom; he tried, of course, but there was Morgan’s will in his limbs and Morgan’s blood on his skin and no living creature would be able to fight against such order. Arthur narrowed his eyes, leaned closer, attempted to move while kept still and wondering.

The shadow came closer.

A woman.

The sound that escaped him was a mixture of pleasure and surprise.

She was beauty condensed into a human form. The fog was her dress and hair, it was the color of her eyes, smooth grey which wavered like silk, it was the soft tone of her voice which lingered in the air even after she finished speaking. Arthur felt his throat close without his awareness. There was something deeply beautiful about her ageless face and gentle eyes, sparkling with a hint of mischief. Nothing could detract from it. Not the armor she wore over her grey velvet dress, not the long sword carefully hidden in its sheath nor the steel crown sitting on her ash-white hair.

One of Morgan’s eyebrows was delicately raised. If Arthur had been able to notice, he would have read boredom in her expression and so very thoroughly unimpressed.

“I always thought one should measure the opponent before raising a blade,” his sister commented conversationally. “It would make things so much more civilised. Then again, her kind tends not to be.”

Heaven and God above, what did she mean, who did she speak of? What was she doing? No words left his lips. It was physically impossible to open his lips, to look away from the lovely figure for long least he blinked and she disappeared into the nothingness which had borne her.

Red fingers traced the air in front of him, playing with the tendrils of fog as their mother would with her silk weave. Arthur attempted to see Merlin teaching her this, the way would pluck the air in front of her, playing with tendrils like one would play a harp and could not manage. It was Morgan who reached for the stars in front of her and condensed them into a simple star, crowning herself with light and traces of dew. Hers the magic wafting the fog apart to show them the night and stars once more, thickening the atmosphere until he felt his legs about to give apart.

The air around them shattered as she, softly, with the care of a painter adding a detail, tore _something_ apart.

Arthur could hear a female voice scream in anguish.

His own voice, raising in tandem, was ignored.

 _Who was this woman he called sister_ , his mind questioned silently. Feathers circled her dress, lined her arms _, she was flying through the air and sitting at his shoulder, she was crowing his death and mourning his departure, her adored enemy. She was the granddaughter of a king, strong and proud, she was the warrior of death,_ she was beloved _and his enemy and_ _his_ sister, his beloved sister whom followed in his shadow when necessary before flying away, before healing and fighting and protecting.

The spell fell away.

She was still Morgan, his mind concluded, struggling against its last tendrils; tall and proud, lovely beyond words, crowned in dark waves and light as she faced the spirit. And, this time, her opponent was just a woman as well, not the immensely powerful Goddess she had seemed up until that moment.

In fact, there was something of Morgan in the ageless face; the same shape of her eyes, perhaps, the slope of their cheeks or the trace of their chin.

“Time to go, girl,” Morgan spoke lowly. “You will have no victims tonight.”

 _Remain silent_. Arthur heard his sister’s warning underneath her words. In this enchanted world, she was Queen, not he. Morgan, Le Fay, Morgan, the Fae, _wrong name,_ the world around him pressed, _wrong name, dog._

“You should stop demanding, Crow,” the woman continued, all enchantment lost from her beautiful voice. “One day, we will not listen.”

His sister’s lips curved. A hint of teeth like a jaw ready to snap. His blood curdled in his veins as the last remains of haze fled from the back of his mind. Arthur was free to be aware of the limbs which did not obey him and the enchantment woven by a dangerous creature out of legends.

“One day, you will not listen, I am sure,” Morgan agreed pleasantly. “One day, I will swallow you whole, bone, flesh and blood. I will rip your skin and sow my clothes with your tendons. I will make sure any ashes remaining of your body are scattered throughout the realms. Should I allow my blood to seal this vow, little fairy? Will you tempt me that far?” Her wounded hand, marred and bloodied, extended in front of her, threatening to drip dark liquid onto the floor.

Arthur knew that emotion on the being’s face. Fear. Pure and undiluted terror.

In contrast, Morgan’s expression did not falter. Her fingers did not shook. Pleased, so very pleased, as a wolf lapping away at its meal.

A drop slipped from the loosely open palm.

It slid down a finger and lingered, gravity tugging it towards the ground.

It wavered.

And before it could fall, before the threat could culminate, the woman knelt in front of his sister, hands cupped underneath Morgan’s to catch the few droplets before they stained the dark ground.

“I thought so.”

No warning was given before Morgan slapped the unknown woman. Once and _twice_ , sharply and without pity. The aggression turned her face abruptly to a side, bloodied the white skin into dark angry red but those cupped hands didn’t move an inch least blood fell.

“I have left you alone too long if you dare to threaten me,” the sorceress continued, closing her hand on the woman’s hair, her lifeblood rushing in small rivers against the pale white skin and ashy hair and Arthur had never heard so much hatred in her voice. Her eyes _burned_. “Or him. Did you think that, by bringing him here, I would be weaker? That these centuries had made you stronger than me?” Fingers tightened. “How _dare_ you come for him? He is _mine_. He was always _mine_.”

“You guard your hound well, Morrigan,” the woman whispered.

Magic raged on Morgan’s skin. It smothered the other woman’s, ate it piece by piece and spat out hatred. Arthur could not know the effect would last. That, for years to come, that woman would be a fae in a human’s body, sick beyond what her kin should be, frail as a winter sun.

That was what happened to those who defied the Gods.

“ _Don’t speak that name!_ ” Venom dripped from every word. “Leave this place. Leave Camelot and its people. If you come back, I will follow. I will leave _nothing_ of your Kingdom for crows to feast on! Do you doubt me?”

The woman shook from head to toe.

“Good. Run.”

And she did, crashing against leaves and trunks in her haste to leave the clearing.

Arthur shook his head, blond hair dripping with condensation. His head hurt like he had drunk the entirety of the alcohol available in their last inn. There was no feeling in his body to ground him in reality.

“Morgan,” _wrong name,_ whispers his mind, struggling to add sounds against his will _, a little voice drowned in reality, clawing its way to the surface, wrong name._ “Morrigan? She called you that. Crow goddess in human guise. Ghost Queen.”

“A mistake.” Two hands reached for his face, scratching away the blood that began to flake. Her features were calm as a still lake, thankfully losing much of the unnaturalness of the previous moments. Her eyes as they met his, were dark as poison and deep as sin. There was no trace of familiar blue to be found. “The spell touched you too. You are not supposed to see the hidden just yet. It might make you fear.”

He found himself smiling, an unnatural smile accompanied by the sudden wish to strike her, to bite at her throat and reach for her heart, to hold her against him and push her away at the same time. Arthur knew this was strange – _horrible even_ – and yet the words were said nevertheless; the truest words he had ever given her. “I would destroy the world and myself with it before I feared you, _Rígan_.”

Arthur who was not Arthur touched her bloodied fingers, brushing a kiss only to taste the dark liquid. There was power in her and he knew it. There was power in her blood, on her skin, in her voice. He wanted to swallow it whole. Consume her and it and everything she had been or would be.

“There you are, my hound.” Tenderness in her gaze, dark abysses of demons without count. “Come now. Sleep. This is not the time for Culann’s warrior to run rampant.”

Not yet, not yet, the King was asleep and he was an innocent and so very ignorant.

“Why am I alive? I am in no pain,” his belly was whole, his skin was intact, there was no tree rasping against his back. “That is…”

Morrigan could not feel sadness; he had no doubt of it. Still, her voice sounded almost soft, almost kind. “It was the fog,” she replied. “It was me not thinking before acting when I realized they were coming for us. Do not worry.”

“That is not the answer I want, woman.”

Her answer was sweet, a gentle kiss to his forehead, to his nose, to his cheek and chin, blessing every trace of his skin.

“Why should you know now, hound?” She asked tenderly. “You died. You live. You’ll die and the wheel will turn again. Why should you remember every turn? Why shouldn’t I spare you that pain?”

Truth was truth, not pain. Even after all this time, she did not understand that.

“He loves another,” he told her bluntly.

Or maybe she did since her only reaction is a patronizing smile. “You always did. And when it’s not a human, it’s that sword of yours. I do not mind.”

“Liar.”

“Flatterer. Sleep now. Sleep again. This is not the time for you to fight me.”

Arthur clawed at the end of his consciousness, the stupid little human. He did not see, did not understand the creature by his side, the greatest opponent one could have, beautiful and fallible and so very smart.

“I will find you.”

A liar, a betrayer and so very strong.

“You always do. I promise you a battle for the ages then.”

Cú Chulainn stared at her steadily, the same grey eyes, the same countenance which he always bore, arrogance, confidence and strength as he stared her down and denied her. Yes. To return to battle again sounded fine. A battle against her sounded better.

“Even if we will level the realm.”

“Don’t we always?”

He held her fingers still when the last traces of magic fade. The touch of skin against skin grounded him, made him struggle to keep himself afloat, away from Arthur. All for nothing. When the sun rose, the warrior strung by the tree rested once more and the King stood.

“Sister?” He called out confusedly. The fog was gone as if it hadn’t come to begin with. His soldiers fidgeted behind them, shuffling in the floor as they woke from unnatural sleep. Only Morgan stood. “What happened?”

Her dark dress was muddied, her hair dislodged by the long night outside and her hands. God, the hand in his was covered in blood. He turned it around, brow furrowing when he found the open wound underneath.

Morgan smiled at his outrage, blue eyes as familiar as the rising sun. “Let us go home, shall we? Before you tempt your Fate before time. Today, your Camelot awaits.” She made a small pause and Arthur could swear, swear upon his very blood no less, that there was a shadow coloring those blue orbs. “Tomorrow, who knows?”

**Author's Note:**

> Born simply out of the connection drawn between Morgan and the celtic Goddess Morrígan. It started there and snowballed into an universe where the Goddess remained on earth and what could draw her to do so. It just happened. I might continued merely because I would be amused to think of other time periods where these two could be thrown into.


End file.
